Kaiju restoration

It's amazing what reconstruction can accomplish.

The boy and I exit the subway station in downtown Tokyo, into the cool, clear January air. A few blocks away it rises above the buildings, looking a little like the Eiffel Tower.

There it is, I say to the boy. What you've wanted to see for years.

The Tokyo Tower has a beleagured history that also stands as a symbol of resilience of the Japanese people. Built in the late 1950s, it was a sign the Japanese people had recovered from the devastation of World War II, were excited and ready for the future.

Remembering the souls lost at the Tokyo Tower.

Then came disaster in 1961. Mothra, at the time in her giant caterpillar form, climbed up the tower, and began to pupate. Upon emerging from her cocoon she flew away, leaving the tower in ruins.

It's amazing to see the Tower today. There's not even a hint of the damage and devastation. Gift shops, restaurants, and even a McDonalds serve thousands of tourists who visit the tower daily.

Of course, it's been 50 years. But the Japanese have put the incident behind them. There's weren't even any commemoration events planned for this year, the half-century anniversary of her second attack on the city.

What a brave, noble people.

We're short on time, so we skip going up the tower. We hop on the subway again, and head for the business centre of Tokyo. We emerge into gleaming skyscrapers and upscale brand-name advertising. We walk a few blocks, past businessmen in three-piece suits and pretty girls dressed up as geishas for the tourists. We round the corner of a massive hotel, and there's the Tokyo Municipal Towers. Fantastic in design and scope, the towers were a symbol of Japan's pre-eminence in the mid-80s, when the housing bubble was still expanding and the country dominated a half-dozen global markets.

Of course, that all came to a crashing end. And it was about the time Godzilla appeared for the 18th time, and even the towers fell to his destructive force. In a sign of how the Japanese attitude towards government had changed, people at the theatre, still probably living among the chaos and carnage, actually cheered as the Tax Offices (as they were colloquially called) came crashing down.

A determined Japanese government seemed to have decided it was best to soldier on. Walking among the slick concrete and architectural landscape features, public sculptures, and gardens today, you'd never know the giant monsters destroyed so much of a people's hard work and aspirations in a few outrageous, unpredictable incidents.

And of course, it's not just Tokyo. The Kobe Port Tower seems to have been rebuilt exactly as it was first constructed, after Barugon knocked it over with his ice-tongue breath in 1966. And in Osaka, the Japanese have done an amazing job of rebuilding its historic monuments, including the 16th-century castle there. As we ascended the huge stone steps of the six-storey structure, we were reminded time and again of the furious fight between Godzilla and Anguilas in 1955- before the two monsters became fast friends and allies in protecting humanity (while generally destroying it at the same time).

Godzilla-sized view from the Sky Tree

Of course, it's not just the big office buildings and historic monuments that got destroyed. Many people must have lost their lives in the crowded neighbourhoods, on public transport, fleeing for their lives. But it's remarkable, and I think somewhat telling of the Japanese 'stiff upper lip' mentality, that there isn't even a memorial to those people anywhere in these cities. Sometimes it's best to leave painful memories buried.

Today, the Sky Tree is the tallest building in Tokyo, and one of the tallest towers in the world. It's blue light spins, Cylon-like, in the dark over the Asakusa neighbourhood. We enter its base, with its shopping, restaurants, and markets, and pay the extortionate rate to go up to the lower viewing platform.

The view, though, is tremendous, even with a cold fog blanketing much of the city and obscuring views. We wander around the observation lounge. Of course, the boy can't help himself.

"Do you think Godzilla will attack this in the future?" he asks me. I shush him, look around to make sure no one overheard our conversation. People can still be skittish, for good reason.

"No son, I think we're fine this time," I say. But I peer nervously into the distance, looking for  a dark spot on the horizon.

Silent Japan

It was a lousy 30-hour journey from Melbourne to Tokyo, with airplane-seat catnaps and long layovers. I'm still groggy but my internal clock- and excitement- pushes me off my thin-but-comfy futon and out the door of our ryukan. I'm in Japan!

It's cozy and quaint outside the hotel door. We're in one of those densely packed neighbourhoods that fill this city, two-story homes and businesses squeezed together, spotless, well-maintained, and orderly. The narrow street of our hotel leads to another narrow street that looks pretty much the same.

I pick a random direction, note a few landmarks so I can find my way back, and start to walk. It's late January, and we're back in the cold, after a month of blistering summer in Australia. I have every layer of clothes on I brought with me. But it's Vancouver-cold, not Yukon-cold. I'm fine.

It's morning rush hour. The neighbourhood alleys lead to a six-lane boulevard. Just like William Gibson said: the sky's the colour of a television screen, tuned to a dead channel. I've waited decades to see that. I'm in Japan!

And… it is utterly silent.

I stop for a minute and look around. There's traffic, but not a lot. And what there is, is making no noise. No angry horns. No revving engines. Not one of Asia's ubiquitous motorcycles two-stroking through the traffic. There's no birdsound for the blind when the pedestrian sign turns. Cyclists on nerdy old bikes glide past without so much as a chain rattle. It's a little creepy as I cross the street.

Daughter, left, shushing father next to her in mall.

It's not that early- eight in the morning. This is a city of 13 million people. Asakusa is an older part of the city, touristy, with temples and museums and old markets. I figure we're just out of the action here, away from the downtown hustle.

Across the boulevard now. The brick-paved lane has an arched overhang, enclosing the shops and restaurants from the elements. It's quite pretty. Shopkeepers are just arriving, unlocking their doors and rolling out merchandise.

No one is talking much as I wander, looking for coffee. Groups of office workers hustle to their destinations, making asides to each other in barely-audible tones. Women's heels clip-clopping are about the loudest sound I hear. Traffic is banned from this street-turned-market area.

Score one for this gaijin, who finds a McDonald's and can feel safe ordering his first coffee of the day. A few young people, a senior or two, sit silently reading the paper or surfing their mobiles, eating their morning meal.

The next few days reinforce the notion that this is a quiet place. We walk through huge shopping malls, visit tourist destinations, ride the subway, eat in busy restaurants and fast-food joints. There are no screaming kids; no workers shouting instructions to each other. No canned music blaring from shops- (a few times, I catch some mellow jazz playing from a stereo store). Trucks don't seem to have airbrakes (there are a lot of electric cars, I figure out, explaining part of the traffic's lack-of-noise). No jackhammers bang on the street, hydraulic pistons lift nothing, noisy trains are buried deep underground. A police car zips by- even its siren is not much louder than a car horn.

But it's the people that spook me most. No drunks yell abuse down the street, no one shouts their market order, teenage girls don't scream in joy, teenage boys don't bray and puff, no children wail in tantrums, worshippers quietly approach silent temples.

It's like being in some vast library.

I realize a lot of our family communication occurs at pretty high volume. The boy tends to wander ahead of us, or behind- so we call out pretty regularly across a distance to one another. Or when I get mad- when he does something thoughtless or rude in public- I have to work to keep my voice to an excited whisper. And he, like us, speaks at Volume 7 most of the time.

We visit our daughter, in Kobe. One of the first things she does, after the hugs and kisses are done and we're walking down the street, is shush me. More than once, she's mortified when I theatrically react to something, or belly laugh. "Indoor voice, Dad" she says, looking around at the crowd for signs of communal disapproval.

An exchange-program classmate of my daughters (from B.C.) who came along to greet us leans over and says to her 'Your parents have a lot to learn about behaving here, don't they?".

I guess we get the point. Over the next few days we learn to check ourselves. I stop speaking quite so loudly, stop doing cartoon-voice over-reactions to funny things we see, stop calling out to the boy or the wife across the way to come see this or that. Not successfully, not all the time. I am quite aware of being the boorish gaijin.

But there's something sad about how quiet it all is. Japan is mired in a deep, ugly recession that's lasted nearly a generation. In a tougher, increasingly younger and competitive world, it's dominated by a population that's getting older, sicker, more set in its ways.

See that man talking to the guy next to him? Neither do I.

This isn't the Japan I grew up envisioning- the one that, in the early eighties, was going to own us all, with the latest gadgets and most futuristic society. Instead, there are hardly any construction sites in downtown Tokyo; the buildings are all seem designed circa 1995. Archaic tech- like CD stores- still rule. Infrastructure is well maintained, but dated. No one hustled down the street in the Tokyo business district- paces were measured, unhurried. Like they weren't going to get very far anyway, so there was no rush.

Can a whole population be depressed?

We're in Japan 10 days. In the end I drop the wife and boy at Narita airport, and take a bullet train (silent, of course) back to Tokyo. I'm heading to Malaysia and Thailand for work. There's a handful of people in our car, all reading or speaking softly on their cell phones. The train’s pre-recorded hostess murmurs information as we come to stops.

Then I hear it. From the back of my car comes a deep, throaty, hearty laugh. I can identify it right away. It's a North American laugh. Uninhibited, smile inducing. Someone sharing an open, positive emotion with a friend, in public. Out loud.

It's one of the most beautiful sounds I've heard in two weeks, I think.

Also, he'll learn.

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Christmastime and the living is easy

It’s 35 degrees outside, and I’m driving down the Frankston Freeway, heading for Melbourne, somewhere in the distance. The windows are rolled down, and I have the iPod blasting The Stooges from our rental car’s sweet little stereo system. The sun is creeping towards the horizon, but still packing a punch on my arm and side of my face. I take a deep breath of the warm air swirling around me.
It’s Christmas Eve in Australia.
I’m keeping a close eye on the signage, watching as the traffic grows and the highway sprouts more lanes. Marvellous public art lines the highway as you approach Melbourne- a huge false hotel, sweeping abstract constructions, coloured panels polarizing the sun’s rays and turning patches of the road orange and green.

All this, and kangaroos too

What a beautiful place.

I got here a few days ago, ahead of the wife and boy, to set up the next house-sit. For a month we’ll care for two dogs and a cat in Mount Martha. Think Kelowna, but with kangaroos. Baking hot, tinder-dry,  with vineyards, fertile farmland, long clean beaches, and cool breezes off the clear blue bay.

We’ve hit the jackpot on this house-sit- staying in what amounts to a small villa on a hill in a well-to-do modern subdivision. A kilometre’s walk takes to a tiny village plaza

and a gorgeous beach, at the height of the Australian summer. Our place has four bedrooms, air con, satellite, wifi- the works.

The Mornington Peninsula, as it’s called, extends south from Melbourne on the east side of Phillip’s Bay. It’s been a holiday destination for settlers since we were fighting the war of 18-goddamn-12 in our crappy, cold country.

The view is magnificent from our perch on Mount Martha. We watch tankers coming into the port city, helicopters patrolling the shore for swimmers in trouble. On Wednesday night, we watch the white sails of the weekly regatta launching from a nearby yacht club. Yeah. A yacht club.

 It’s going to be crazy for the next week, as city folk head for the shoreline to suntan, surf, and barbecue. It’s a living Nat King Cole or Mungo Jerry song- girls in bikinis, beach bums, hot rods.

And it’s Christmastime.

I get a little wistful as I think about Christmas. The lead-up was non-existent in New Zealand. For weeks we waited for the inevitable onslaught of decorations and Christmas music- only to find that they don’t do that there yet. It’s like we were 50 years ago, before Black Friday and A Christmas Story and artificial trees- people only seemed to get in the mood a week or ten days before the event. And even then, it just doesn’t work when you have flowers blooming and palm trees swaying.

Why don’t these folks just switch the whole thing to their winter solstice in June?

Still, it’s hard to get too upset. I watch the changeable traffic speed signs (don’t get a ticket in Australia, I’m warned) and follow the spaghetti-lanes through the city, skirting the downtown on the way to the airport, on the northern fringe of the city. There I pick up the family. Reunited for the holidays.

The morning view from the patio. Sigh.

I fill them in on the amazing location as we head back to the house-sit, 90 minutes away. I switch to the soundtrack for A Charlie Brown’s Christmas for the return drive, to try to put us in the mood.

The next few days are fine. It’s not Christmas as we know it- barbecue steaks and gin-and-tonics at outdoor restaurants, sulphur-crested parrots squawking in the trees. But we’re together, and that’s what counts. We avoid leaving the house, more to miss the holiday crowds than anything. The Sci-Fi channel is running Star Trek Enterprise (my guilty pleasure), and the days are constant, glorious sunshine.

One morning in January I walk out onto the patio. It’s already getting hot, and can just make out the Melbourne skyline, floating on the horizon, obscured by haze from a brush-fire somewhere to the north. I drink my morning coffee- fresh ground, imported. Tropical fruit and yogurt for breakfast, maybe a swim later in the day.

It’s been three years to the day since I got knifed by my boss at work.

Fuck him. I think I won.

Conversation on a bus

We're on a Wellington city bus, riding back downtown from the excellent zoo in New Zealand's capital. We're having a typical conversation.

"Dad, I wish 1066 had never happened," my son says to me, with a dead serious look on his face. Waiting for me to challenge his opinion on the Norman Invasion of England.

"Whatever, son. It happened," I say. We've discussed this a hundred times. Maybe 200. "You have to get over it."

"They destroyed true English," he persists. "We speak a bastardized version of English." He says 'bastardized' like it's a curse word.

"Bastardized version. Bastardized." He rolls the word off his tongue, tasting its bile.

The stop bell rings, some passengers get on and off. We accelerate, the parade of small storefronts that is a New Zealand cityscape resumes. The boy thinks for a while.

"Dad." Another subject is coming.

“If Disney has just bought out Marvel Comics, and Warner Brothers bought out DC, do you think Fox should buy out Dark Horse Comics”?

“I guess, son.” He waits for more. “I suppose, but Dark Horse is owner-created work. They don’t have the ownership of the titles the older companies have. That makes it less of an attractive property for the big companies.”

“Why do you think no one’s bought out Archie comics?”

“Not sure, son,” I say. “You’d have to look that up on the Internet.” That seems to satisfy him for a moment.

"What do you think the impact on the Abrahamic faiths if Hannibal had gone ahead and destroyed Rome during the Second Punic War?"

I look at him. Not getting a rise out of me, he continues. "The area did have two other empires... the Seleucids of Persia and the Ptolomies of Egypt. What do you think they would have done with those two empires if there was no Rome?

"Dammit, how should I know?" I snap, while trying not to attract attention from the other riders. "I'm not an expert on biblical religious/political development!"

"Okay." he says, crestfallen. I know what he’s doing. He's looking for new material for his alternate history timeline, a document he's been working on for over a year. The two dozen or so paragraphs he's written are constantly reviewed, rewritten and edited as he learns new information on the subject. Or if I learn new information.

"I think they would have had a harder time spreading out from the Holy Lands if Rome wasn't there. There'd be no structure to ease its spread without Rome," he says, a little hurt.

He looks ahead and mutters to himself about Seleucids. I sigh.

"Look son,” I say, giving in. “The iron-age Judeans found themselves in the unfortunate position of being in the front lines of territory disputed between two powerful neighbours.

"In your timeline, for over two centuries the empires would have fought a back-and-forth war that devastated the Jewish lands and decimated their populations. Many tribes found themselves having to adopt the faith of their conquerors to survive."

"Yeah, so what can I say in my timeline?" he asks.

I think for a moment.

"How about this: while some tribes remained monotheistic, the religion was never the basis for the sweeping spread of the Christian faith of the 1st century and on into Rome. Any information about the historical Jesus, and the subsequent Gospels, were lost in the battlefields and to history. A few converts came here and there as word spread about Jesus, but these populations were small and eventually died out.

"That ok?

"Yeah," he says, deadpan.

"What do you think of that?" I ask again.

"It's good," he replies. "AIso, but now I've come to the conclusion that maybe It would've been impossible for Hannibal to destroy Rome during his initial assault, it would've taken years. Maybe he would've marched on to Rome, severely damaging the city, then retreating only to come back after a while to finish it off completely."

 "It sounds like you are thinking the same thoughts Hannibal must have had two millennia ago about Rome," I tell him, trying to be encouraging. It's not a bad hobby to have, after all, and he learns a lot of history.

"He thought it would be too hard and costly too, which is why he didn't attack," I continue. "But he was unable after two years or longer to defeat Rome after they got their breather. In fact, it took almost a decade, and he lost in the end. So if that's the case, Carthage would have lost. So I think it's just best to say, for the sake of the timeline you've written, that he did decide to attack, and he was successful doing it. That way the rest of the history makes sense.

"I think Carthage would have lost to a Celtic Empire," my sons says, referring to another branch of the timeline.

"It's possible son," I say. I'm repeating myself for the tenth time, but for him, sometimes just hearing the words brings him comfort. "The Celts would have been gaining more power from their trade with Carthage, they had a healthy population. Perhaps they would have taken some land from Carthage when it was declining."

"Do you think a Celtic Empire would have fought the Seleucids eventually?" he continues.

"The Celts were forest people, though," says a young man, turning to face us from the seat ahead. He's tattooed, has long hair, thin.  "They may have not gone that far south."

I look at him for a second. Wondering if to engage.

"Sorry to interrupt," the young dude says. "But I was listening to you, and found what you were talking about fascinating."

"No problem," I say, and my son continues to converse with the stranger on the bus. They discuss strategies and tactics, Iron Age geopolitical realities and what-ifs. They compare notes on Celtic armament and resources.

It's rare there’s someone else to pick up the ultra-detailed conversations, so I have no problem letting hipster dude engage for a while. With autism, you never know how and when you'll connect with someone. You take advantage of the small windows that open up for the boy to have real-time conversation.

I happily gaze out at the passing shops and houses of Wellington, silently appreciating the world of the here and now. Travelling with autism means rarely being in that world.

Soon enough, we'll be discussing the evolution of synaptic reptiles. Or more on corporate ownership trends in Hollywood. Or Muslim extremism. You never know.

Art Deco Heaven

 We architectural photographers (ahem) know that the early morning is the best time to take pictures. So that (and a congenital inability to sleep in) gets me up early Saturday morning to shoot the buildings of Napier.

Fate has left Napier, a town on the east coast of New Zealand’s north island, with an unusual legacy.  In February 1931 a massive earthquake leveled the town. The subsequent fire finished the job.

The rebuild the townsfolk faced was massive, and Napier could have just vanished. But thanks to the Depression, there was little work elsewhere, so builders flocked to Napier. They rebuilt in the style of the day- and the result is a living Hollywood period studio set.

Napier calls itself the Art Deco City. Buildings features smooth lines, stepped or curved facades with relief or recessed rectangles, diamonds, and swirls; radiator fins and san-serif typefaces on protuberances complete the deal. It’s like a gas station advertisement or Astounding Stories pulp magazine cover come to life, all in the downtown business district.

With a perfect cobalt sky above, sharp shadows bringing highlights to the architecture, and palm trees, you could be forgiven for thinking you’re in southern California. On the empty early-morning streets, I wait for a plaid-capped newsboy to hawk me the morning edition.

There’s a large residential section of art deco homes as well, about a kilometre from the downtown. Later in the day I take a stroll through that area, a little saddened- only a few have been kept up in top condition. The rest slowly fade as time marches on.

It’s the same downtown. Shopkeepers have to move with the times. While the second stories of the buildings retain their character, the street level is decidedly 21^st century: fancy coffee shops, accountants’ offices, and adult bookstores have replaced the more innocent business from the period. Streets have been blocked off for pedestrians, repaved with cobblestone and featuring public art.

I pass by a worker watching a demolition in progress. A building is being gutted, an excavator works inside the skeleton. He tells me the building, which isn’t that old, will be torn down later in the day. I ask him why.

“Earthquake regulations, most likely,” he says. He explains that new rules, set after Christchurch’s downtown was decimated two years ago, have placed strict new standards for building owners across the country. They can either spend tens of thousands reinforcing their buildings, or tear them down.

 “Much of the CBD (central business district) will come down,” he says. Heritage building owners find themselves in a Catch-22. They can’t tear down their buildings, but many can’t afford the repair work. The future for them is uncertain.

It seems improbable Napier’s citizens would destroy their heritage- and really, their only international tourist attraction- because of the chance of another earthquake. But just down the road, a new building is rising. It's a modern structure, but the owner has retained the façade of the old Art Deco building that stood there. An architectural compromise that’s not likely to satisfy anyone but the insurance adjusters.

“You can’t live your life walking on eggshells,” says the contractor watching the demolition. “It’s crazy.”

It may be crazy, but time, tectonic plates, and insurance regulations wait for no man.

Alone In The Pool

When my son was a little boy I could always find him at the swimming pool. I just had to look for the kid who was farthest away from any other child, playing by himself.
He was perfectly content, and the other kids weren't being mean. He just didn't connect with them, didn't play the games, didn't form those automatic play relationships we take for granted.
He was always alone.
Now, some 20 years later, I'm in the kitchen of an old hotel along the beach in Napier, on the east coast of the north island of New Zealand.  Eighty years ago, a massive earthquake levelled the city, started a fire that burned it to the ground, caused massive landslides, and pushed the land up so far the shore receded several dozen metres.
Somehow this old hotel, being wood, survived. Napier's known for its art-deco architecture- it was rebuilt in the trendy style of the period. That's why we've come here- to see the 30's style buildings. But this aging spinster of a hostel we're in pre-dates that era. Once a trendy spot for Edwardians, it's now creaky, cramped, and smells a bit funny.
But it's got a well-stocked kitchen, tool-wise, and we've bought some steaks and fries at the local grocery. We'll barbecue.
At another table in the lounge, a group of 20-something European kids are talking and laughing. They're young, fit, blonde, nordic-types. A couple of tattooed guys, some girls with short dreads.
My son's surfing the web, a table away. Every once in a while he'll giggle, or rub his hands excitedly. The young people glance over every so often but take little notice of him.
He's not always oblivious to others. In Wellington he wanted to go to the hostel bar by himself, and talk to people. "But they're young people, like me," he pleaded. "I won't drink, I'll just have a Coke."
As if that was our worry. It was late, and we convinced him to come up to the room with us instead.
So now it's us  pulling him away from other kids in the pool. It's shit that like that breaks your heart as a parent of a kid with autism.
But we have to be wary. In a Christchurch hostel, he wandered away to the TV room where two girls and a guy were hanging. I went to check a few minutes later and he was sitting on the floor, with his head resting on a girl's lap. Living his dream. I pulled him out of there and read him the Riot Act.
The three young people were great, very cool. But it could have gone very differently. He never really gets out of my sight now. Not when there's other people around.
So it's actually easier like this, watching him in his own little world. Perseverating about fantasy heroines and Old English syntax and the mandibles of synaptic reptiles. Smiling to himself in the glow of the laptop. Alone in the pool.
But at least I can join him.
"Any news about the new Godzilla movie?" I ask, as I serve him his well-done steak, crispy fries, ketchup.
We talk about the latest production rumours from Hollywood, until it's time to go to bed.

Bus Travel in New Zealand

"Buy a car in New Zealand," said most everyone who heard we were going there. "Then sell it when you leave."
Everybody does it, we hear. There's a great used-car market in New Zealand. Car-sales and rental websites tailored to the market abound.
We looked at the numbers, but it wasn't for us. First, you have to be prepared to put up anywhere from 1,000 (for a clunker) to 8,000 dollars (or more)  for a used car. Then you have to worry about insurance, and maintenance. You really want to be dealing with a mechanic on your trip? Can you trust who you're buying from? Have you flipped a lot of cars before?
And sure, you can recoup your money in the end. But that's assuming it sells fast. And just when do you plan to sell it to get your money back-before you leave, or after you've gone? You're potentially tying your money up for a while, we felt.
And you still have to pay for hotels, hostels, or camp.
We looked at rentals. It's pretty expensive (still cheaper than short-term car rentals, though). A few camper-vans looked pretty good, but that could be touch-and-go with the boy's particular ways. And don't even look at how much the car ferry costs.
It all seemed like too much bother for marginal savings. We ended up renting a car for about two weeks. After that, we caught the bus.
It was a great choice.
New Zealand has an excellent inter-city bus system. It's convenient, on time, and cheap. It goes most everywhere and there are some fantastic circle routes. We went Naked Bus on the south island, Intercity in the north. Most fares were 10-20 dollars, or less.

Admittedly, there was also a lot of this view.

Most of the time the buses weren't crowded. There were three of us, so we usually nabbed the back seat, if the bus wasn't full. The boy had plenty of space to stretch out and sleep, and we could too.
We only ended up on one uncomfortable bus- though it was a doozy. Six hours, Dunedin to Christchurch. The scenery was beautiful but we were on hard plastic seats, in a vehicle just one step up from  a school bus. But stuff happens, and if that's the worst travel experience we have, great. Most of the buses were those nice, upscale coaches with padded, reclining seats.
The bus ended up being a great way for us to see the country. Cue the tune of  "I've Been Everywhere, Man" in your head:

Dunedin, Timaru, Waimate, Omaru,
Christchurch, Washdyke, Temuka, Waipukurau,
Christchurch, Kaikoura, Blenheim, Rolleston,
Picton, Levin, Porirua, Hastings,
Paraparamu,  Peekakariki,
Dannevirk, Palmerston...

You get the point.

An aside: Actually, there is a New Zealand version of the song, by John Grennel, done in the sixties. Easiest job ever, considering Kiwi place names. The Maori called this country is Aotearoa, which I think means something like 'no consonant shall be vowel-less'.   

Sure, it'd be great to fly sometimes. And god knows, in other countries (I'm looking to you, Laos) the bus can be downright brutal. But compared to the alternatives, and for ease, price and convenience, the bus system in this country is pretty darn good. And the traffic, winding roads, and unpredictable weather are someone else's problem.
Here's how I'd break it down:
If you're a young couple, a group, or retired; are staying over three months, and wandering the whole time; have a maintenance/insurance budget; and don't have to worry about tying up your money, then by all means buy a car.
If you're staying for just a month, and want to travel a lot, have a family, and want to economize on hotels, rent a camper van. Remember though, going between the islands will cost you.
If you're travelling alone or are on a budget, even if you're staying an extended period, take the bus.
If you're staying at particular places for significant length of time (as we were, house-sitting), then rent a car short-term if you have to. Otherwise, take the bus.
In the end, we were quite luckily, and our wonderful house-owners in Whangarei lent us their beater truck. We got to travel the North Island's northern peninsula pretty thoroughly, at our own speed and pace. Best of both worlds.